


Dust and Gold

by VolxdoSioda



Category: Final Fantasy X, Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Auron is the first Amicitia, Eos was once Spira, Gen, and he has had it up to here with your shit Gladio, tw: suicide attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2019-07-20 19:23:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16143875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VolxdoSioda/pseuds/VolxdoSioda
Summary: Once, Eos had been called Spira. Once, the Astrals had been Fayth, people willing to give their lives to see Sin - a foul, early strain of the Starscourge, erased for good.Once, there had been a girl, and a boy, and a team of ragtag heroes that hadn't known what they were doing, but were determined to put the world back in order.Now there is another team, this one made of four young men. A king and his chosen brothers.But in the wake of countless death, the King's light is beginning to flicker. Beginning to falter. And the chosen Shield has forgotten his own path, forgotten what it means to be Shield.Thankfully, for all the centuries and changes the world has gone through, the first Amiticia was never far from the physical plane. He has watched rulers come and go, watched the world go to war with itself, and he has watched as countless weights have been offloaded onto Noctis Lucis Caelum's shoulders, and his Shield has failed in his duty time and time again.If Gladio will not keep the ground beneath Noctis steady, will not be his pillar, then Auron will do so.





	1. Sudden Drop

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Seito](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seito/gifts), [Adel Mortescryche (Mortescryche)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mortescryche/gifts).



> I will happily and proudly blame Adel and Seito for this. You two brats deserve this, with the countless FFXV plots we've been flinging at each other. 
> 
> Please be aware that this story does contain a warning for **suicide attempts** early on. Noctis is not in a good head space, and a lot of it has to do with the grief that he hasn't been allowed to let go of, as well as a heavy case of survivor's guilt, blaming himself, and just generally dealing with everyone he knows and loves dying on the regular. 
> 
> Kids, take it from me, it's a terrible idea to bottle shit up and try to push on. It's almost impossible, in fact, and half the time the resulting explosion hurts you, if not the people near you. Molotov cocktails are only fun when you don't drop them on yourselves, so be smart and deal with your grief like sensible people. Not like Gladio "I wouldn't know what grieving is if it bit me on the face" Amicitia, who is the outlier for this study and should not be counted.

This was all his fault.

It had been his fault when his dad died, when Clarus had died. Because he was too young to save his family, too inexperienced. Too stupid.

And it had been his fault when the Empire got the Crystal and the city and his people suffered and died in his name. It was his fault they were still there. He was the reason Jared died, trying to keep his secret safe while Noctis dragged his feet in finding Titan. 

And now, he was the reason for Luna's death as well. Because he was nothing but a failure of a King, failure of a Prince, nothing but a sheltered boy who didn't know what he was doing. 

He just... hadn't expected Gladiolus to be the one to turn on him. He'd thought Ignis, after everything was said and done, would be the one to tell him  _you aren't worth all this effort. Goodbye, Noctis._

But instead, it had been his Shield. And oh, how his words had hurt. Even now they're wrapped around his mind like yards of razor wire, digging into him, cutting deeper with every move he makes.

All he wants to do is sleep, and never wake up again.

_"The hell is wrong with you? You need to grow up and get over it. Maybe when you're not too busy moping, you can look around and give a shit about someone worse off than you. How's that ring fit ya? You'd rather carry it around than wear it? She gave her life so you could do your duty, not so you could sit around feeling sorry for yourself! You think you're a king, but you're a coward!"_

Coward. Selfish. Child.

He's too demanding, too needy, too slow, too stupid, too... too much of a failure. He's cost countless people their lives, countless moments he'll never get back. And Gladio's gone off with Ignis and Prompto's over by the rails and he's supposed to be out here looking for information on where the royal tomb is, but--

_Is it even worth it? Am I even worth it?_

The pain's bubbling around in his chest, fresh and sore. It doesn't feel like it's been weeks since they left Accordo, but mere moments instead. The land around them feels like the end of it all, open and dusty and with nothing but wild winds and a sharp drop.

_Maybe that's the answer, then. To all of this._

He closes his eyes. It's his fault everyone keeps dying. Everyone keeps suffering. What if he were to leave, to vanish? Would the pain stop then? Could everyone go home and just... 

_Looking at this logically, all these deaths have in common is me. The supposed King of Lucis. I'm more trouble than I'm worth. So what's the point of me sticking around? Of me getting to live when others haven't?_

He doesn't feel himself stand, but his gaze starts sweeping across the station, looking for somewhere far away from the windows, far away from Prompto. He doesn't need to bother them with this. The least he can do is handle this much like a man.

He finds a little corner, out of the way. A sheer drop all the way down into the rusty ground. At least he won't feel anything long. He gets to the edge, and rests a foot over empty air. 

_So ends the line of Lucis Caelums._

He takes a step forward.

"JUMPER!" Someone yells.

The fall almost feels dream-like, for Noctis. He falls, and the winds take him, grab him and twisting him down. He's looking up as he falls, and so he sees the faces looking down at him as he goes. He closes his eyes.

 _I'm doing them a favor,_ he thinks, and thinks that even as he hits ground.

And then, nothing.

 

**_0-0-0-0-0-0-0_ **

 

Prompto isn't really paying attention when the scream happens; he half turns, and then winces when he hears the word. Jumper. It doesn't surprise him there are a lot of suicide attempts around here. Perfect place for them, really. You go anyway but the elevator, you wind up dead. There's no place to run, no place to climb down. It's jump, or ride, and a lot of people choose the former than the latter.

Still, he should probably go check in with everyone. Make sure they're okay, and see what Noctis has found about the royal tombs, because with this crowd they won't talk about anything else for a while after.

Gladio and Ignis are still on the train, eating their food. Gladio shoots him a glance when he pokes his head into the compartment, but otherwise gives no indication of even caring he's there. Jerk.

Noctis, however... Noctis is proving elusive, even with his all-black getup. You think you'd be able to see a guy like that for miles out here, given everyone's in pastels. 

 _Maybe he went to take a shit. Or lie down. I'd lie down too, if Gladio yelled at me._ Except all the bathrooms and bedrooms are empty. Well, okay then, maybe he's hiding somewhere. Taking a chance to have a small panic attack before they hit the mines.

But nope, he's not there, either. On his walk back to the train, Prompto hears it.

"Oh, poor boy... at least he didn't suffer long. Young thing look so peaceful."

"Can you give me a description of the jumper, ma'am? I'll forward it to the Hunters."

"Aye, black hair and clothes, black eyes. Looked almost like the Prince, poor dear. Do you think that's why he jumeped?"

Terror shoots Prompto through the heart so fast it feels like a gunshot. He stumbles, and whips around. He can't find Noctis. He  _can't find Noctis, oh gods no._

He doesn't know how he manages to make it back inside through the veil of panic that's descended on him, but he skids to his knees in front of their table and says, "Please tell me you've seen Noctis!"

Ignis frowns. "Gladio?"

Gladio grumbles something. 

And here is the moment they realize something isn't right. Because the rage that tears through Prompto then has him grabbing Gladio by the front of his jacket and shoving his face close enough to where Gladio sees the terror in his expression.  _"Stop acting like a petulant child you fucking asshat and tell me where Noctis is!"_

"Prompto, calm yourself, what--"

"There was a jumper, and I can't find Noct!" Prompto practically screams. "I haven't seen him since they said it and I've looked up and down this fucking train station and  _I'm not finding him!"_

Ignis' expression goes far too calm, his skin paling. "He's around, I'm certain. Let's go look, shall we? I'm certain we'll find him. Perhaps in your haste, you missed each other."

Never mind that the zone they're in is small, that the only way is  _down._

"NOCT!" Gladio yells, cupping his hands around his mouth. "C'MERE!"

"Noct!" Prompto yells, and tries to stop the quaver in his voice. He looks around, but he doesn't see anything. Nobody shows any interest. 

"Noctis!" Ignis yells. "Noctis, come, it's time to go!"

But Noctis doesn't appear. And like a slow, insidious snake among the grass, the terror that took root in Prompto spreads to Ignis, and then Gladio.

"Doesn't make sense. Why would he jump?!" Ignis hisses to himself. "Surely, surely he knows--"

"He wouldn't have jumped, he's too much of a bitch," Gladio says, but Prompto can see the muted terror in his eyes, the panic he's trying to hold back. "Maybe he went down to the mines already?"

Except there's a guard by the elevator, and he says nobody has been down.

"Could have been lying," Gladio bluffs as they go back up. But nobody says anything.

"Excuse me," the old lady from earlier calls to them, over by the station master. "Have you dearies lost someone?"

Prompto nearly chokes on his words. "Yeah. Guy about my height, black hair, black shirt, jacket, shoes, shorts? Has he... been by?"

The old lady's expression stutters, and then falters. She turns and calls, "Stationmaster? I believe I've found them."

 _No,_ Prompto wants to say as an elderly man hobbles up to them. He sweeps his hat off his head.  _No. No, it can't--_

"I don't suppose you lads know who this belongs to?" And he holds it out.

Prompto gives a little cry in the depths of his throat, his entire world narrowing down to the phone in the man's hand. His knees give out. "No," he sobs.  _"No,_ oh gods, Six,  _why."_

Gladio stares at it in disbelief. Gone is the man from earlier, a man who yelled at his King. 

"Prompto, Gladio, what--"

"His phone, Iggy. H-His fucking  _phone."_

The man bows his head. "I'm sorry for your loss, boys. We've got the Hunters on the way out, gonna take a shot at looking for the body."

Ignis silently takes the phone from his hand, and says nothing. Merely stares down at the black screen, a furrow in his brow, like he's faced with an equation he can't solve. Gladio wavers, and then walks two steps to sit on the bench, disbelief written all over his face.

Prompto just sobs into his jacket. It's all he can do, the sweep of grief too much for him to bear. 

Because now, they've truly lost everything. 

 

**_0-0-0-0-0-0-0_ **

 

Night falls down in the mines. The thick darkness that oozes like miasma seems to grow even thicker. Down here, there are no havens, no safety nets, no protections. The rain currently cracking down makes it even harder to see.

But despite the fact that there are two men sitting on a jutting rock beneath an outcropping to avoid getting soaked, the daemons in the area do not draw near. They know better, because while the first man dressed in black, unconscious with a scar on his temple and bandages around his neck, is easy prey, the second. Oh, the  _second._

Even daemons are not foolish enough to tangle with the walking dead.

Fayth, the man would have once been called. But that calling was denied to him in place of another. A rash, loud man that is no longer here. A man that reminds him far too much of the boy sitting behind him.

It's a story he's seen played out a thousand and one times, and it never gets easier to watch unfold. A boy, and sometimes a girl, and a ragtag group of heroes descend across the world to defeat Sin, to stop its progression across the land, to stop death.

But now Sin is called the Starscourge, and this ragtag band is four wet-behind-the-ears youths who barely have an iota of an idea how to live. How to survive. How to hold each other up.

Auron peers up at the black sky. The king's light is flickering inside him, a sluggish, barely-burning thing that has been brought low by his own protector. By his own Guardian. It's been a long time since Auron's been disappointed in one of his own like this. There is no purpose to a Guardian that harms their own charge - or to a Shield that doesn't know how to protect.

If Gladiolus Amicitia can not be bothered to do his job correctly, then Auron Amiticita, first of his name, will simply have to pick up his King and take that role for himself.

Starting with watching as the fiends dance in the barely-there light of the caves, and waiting patiently for Noctis to wake.


	2. Sudden Stop

Noctis wakes from his attempt at suicide feeling like he went twelve rounds with Cor Leonis on the training mats. He cracks open an eye, and hisses at the flood of light he finds waiting for him; it seems dawn has come, and with it the stark realization that somehow, despite the massive drop he took, he isn't dead.

Not a moment later, he has an answer as to  _why_ he isn't dead, as something crimson shifts nearby. "Awake at last, hm?"

"Nngh," is all Noctis can manage in response, his throat feeling scraped raw. He knows he didn't scream on the way down.

"My apologies," the voice says, and then there are arms beneath his back, and Noctis hisses as he's brought upright, close to someone. "Open your eyes."

Now that he's sitting upright, it's a little easier to breathe. Opening his eyes takes a few tries, because the light is still blinding, and he's never been good with being able to just immediately open his eyes upon waking. The face he finds before him is old and weathered, a scar across one eye reminiscent of Gladio's (and oh, there's a hurtful thought), dark hair lined with silver, tinted glasses hiding the gaze of the man before him. 

Somehow, Noctis feels like he should know who this man is.

"Now. On a scale of one to ten, tell me, how much pain are you in?" the man asks gently, and Noctis breathes in, and tries to find his voice. Now that he's awake, aware, it isn't... terrible. It's mainly emotional pain, more than anything. 

"M-maybe a three, four if I push." He swallows. "Who are you?"

"That's a lie, little Prince."

"Huh?"

"I'm not talking about merely your physical state. Your emotions play part in this as well. So tell me, how much pain are you in?"

Noctis feels his cheeks burn red. "I'm fine," he says. "Three or four."

All that gets him is a patient kind of silence, and a raised eyebrow. Noctis ignores it in favor of focusing on something else. "You haven't answered my question. Who are you? What am I doing here - wherever 'here' is?"

The man hums low in his throat, a kind of testing sound. "Auron. And we're just beyond the entrance of the Fodina Caestino quarry."

"The mines?" He looks up - sure enough, far above, he can see where he fell from. He plummeted straight down, just as he planned. 

"Indeed. That  _is_ where you planned your body to rest during your attempt, was it not?"

Noctis blood runs cold. 

He jerks out of the man's - Auron's - grip, throwing himself back. "What?" he demands, his heart pounding.  _How does he know about that? He wasn't there, at the terminal._ _I would have remembered!_ "I don't know what you're--"

"Noctis Lucis Caelum, 114th Heir to the Kingdom of Lucis, born of Insomnia, the Crown City," Auron says, and Noctis feels his throat clamp shut. "You planned to commit suicide by jumping, because you have lost your way, and because your Shield is a fool who has lost his honor.  _Do_ give me the courtesy of not lying to my face. I have seen enough of you come and go to know when royal blood is lying."

And suddenly, Noctis recalls why this man feels familiar. Because in the west wing of the Citadel there hangs a collection of portraits - the first line of Kings, and their Shields. And on the very first portrait there is this man - Auron Amicitia. Who should be dead by now.

Noctis swallows hard. "H-how..."  _How are you here? How did you save me? How did you know what happened? What do you want?_

Auron peers at him over the rim of his glasses, and Noctis flinches as if struck - there is a tenderness to the man's gaze that makes him feel as if he is laid bare, no secret left unseen. "It is an old story, one you don't need to dwell on. The only thing you must know is that I am here because my grandson is a fool, and because I will not stand by and watch as you collapse beneath the burdens others have placed on you. If Gladiolus will not act as Guardian and stand by the bloodline oaths to you, then I will do so."

"Guardian?" The word escapes him. "Don't you mean Shield?"  _Why are you asking a dead man questions? And why are you still  sitting here? Grab your weapon, idiot!_

"No. The Amicitia's lore has been lost over time - we were not made as  _Shields._ We were made as  _Guardians._ We do not simply protect you from physical harm. We are meant to be all things to you on your journey - brother, confidant, protector, herald, guide. To be a Guardian is more than just bodily protecting - it is sacrifice, and understanding. Pain and healing. All these things the Amicitia have forgotten over the long years." 

He sighs, and his gaze moves off to the distance. "Perhaps, if I had come when Clarus were young, I could have fixed all of this. But it does no good to regret. We can only move forward."

 _No way back now. Gotta keep going._ Prompto's words from so long ago ring in his ears, and Noctis finds his throat tightening again. Suddenly, he doesn't feel nearly composed enough for this discussion.

"First, however," Auron says, and stands. He towers over Gladio easily, but Noctis can't bring himself to be threatened by the height. "We need to take care of what you came here to do earlier."

Noctis swallows hard. "Are you... going to take me back, after?" The idea makes something in his stomach go cold and hard - the idea of seeing any of the guys after his suicide attempt puts fear in his bones. If they hated him before, they'll loathe him now.

Auron looks at him. "No," he says. "And truth be told, even if your friends were to come for you right this moment, I would not hand you back over. You are in no position to protect anyone right now, and they are in no mindset to protect you. A brief break would do you all a favor." He pulls at the heavy cloth collar surrounding his neck. "And it gives us time to speak. Now, can you walk?"

Gingerly, Noctis climbs to his feet. Part of him still considers this whole thing mind-boggling, and he weighs the merits of reaching for his weapon. Maybe it's a lucid dream, and he's actually dead. "I can walk," he says. Auron nods, and turns to head further into the mines.

Before he can regret his decision, Noctis calls the Engine Blade from his weaponry, and warps, aiming for a clean strike. If it's a hallucination, he'll pass right through it. 

But his blade hits air, Auron gone in a whirl of crimson cloth, and Noctis cries out not in pain, but shock as a callused hand seizes his wrist and knocks the blade from his hand, the man stepping neatly into his space and wrapping his other hand around his body, pinning his other arm in place. There's a strange muffled feeling hovering around him, and he finds when he tries to reach for his Armiger, he can't. It's like its just outside his reach. 

He expects yelling, or a demand like what Gladio would give, harsh and rough,  _what the fuck do you think you're doing?!_

Instead, Auron remains patient, letting the initial shock wear off, before quietly asking, "Are you calm now?"

And the funny thing is, he is. The voices in his head - the guilt, the doubt, the anger, the grief - it's all gone quiet beneath Auron's unrelenting grip on him. He's not hurting him, but Noctis can tell struggling will yield nothing. He's been neatly evaded, and caught, and instead of lashing out, Auron merely wants to know if he's calm. 

Something queer jerks through his stomach and up his throat. Noctis shuts it down before he can put a name to it, and goes slack in Auron's grip. "Yeah," he croaks. "Yeah. I just."

"I know," Auron says, and lets go. He steps around Noctis, and says, "Come."

This time, Noctis silently follows him down the path.

 

_**0-0-0-0-0-0-0** _

 

By the time they reach the bottom of the mine, it's started raining again. In the distant darkness, Noctis can hear the laughter of  _something_ daemonic. He glances around, but sees nothing. He jogs a little closer to Auron, who continues on until they reach what was undoubtedly once solid ground, but is now a massive green lake. There's no telling what's in the water, after all this time. Noctis doubts it's anything good for human skin.

"Given how long it's been since anyone's been down here," Auron says. "It would be a good idea to find the backup generator before anything else, and ensure it runs. Chances are good the machines are out of power, or will be shortly."

Noctis nods. "Okay then. I don't suppose that's them in the middle of this... ooze?" He reaches out and touches the water with his toe. The fact that some of it sticks to him coming back doesn't speak of good things. 

Auron looks over to where Noctis is pointing. "That would be the main generator, actually. Good eyes, however. Now we know where it is, and need only keep an eye on our journey out."

"Why?" Noctis asks. "Aren't we just going to walk in?"

Auron chuckles. It's a surprisingly nice sound, deep and quiet. Not mocking so much as just... amused. "Were it only so simple. Come, and stay close."

It takes Noctis next to no time to see what Auron meant about the machines, as well as why he laughed when Noctis asked about walking in. There's a massive tree in the middle of the quarry, and the roots are widespread and fierce. More to the point though, one of the machines was apparently parked in the only way forward - which means just as Auron explained, they have to get the backup generators going. If there's enough power in the main generator, it won't harm anything, but if there isn't, Noctis doesn't want to truck through ooze to find out.

"Backup generators usually require keys, or codes of some sort," Auron says as they walk through the thick brush, which serves to impede Noctis more than Auron. "We can check when we find one, but I suspect it's the case."

"Damn it." Noctis scowls. "So it's really not going to be a quick in-and-out again thing."

"No. Fortunate for us." He peers up at the sky. "It's getting dark. Have you a map?"

Noctis hands it over, and after a moment Auron nods, and hands it back. "This way."

"Where are we going?"

"A nearby safe spot. It's not a haven of any sort, but it's blocked on three of the four sides."

Noctis feels his throat tighten again. "The daemons--"

"Will not approach so long as I bar the entrance. They don't care for the walking dead."

Noctis, having forgotten for a moment of Auron's nature, shivers. "Yeah. Um. Anything I need to know about that?"

Auron chuckles. "If you're asking whether I'm going to disappear or cause more of your ancestors to rise from their graves, the answer is no. I move between worlds of my own volition, not out of hatred or because of a grudge. And I promise you, so long as you remain by my side, you will be safe."

Gladio's said that before too, as has Ignis and Prompto. They've all promised to keep him safe. But Auron's words feel... different. It doesn't feel like something said between friends, or when Gladio says it as his Shield. It feels heavier. Far heavier. 

He swallows. Suddenly, he's more aware of his royal blood than he's ever been, and feeling increasingly like he should be doing  _something._ He's already proven himself useless in acting like a proper king, he doesn't need to embarrass his dad or lineage even more. 

"I can take first watch," he says.

"No."

He's shut down immediately - not even a chance for thought. 

"But--"

Auron turns his head, so one eye lands on Noctis, and the look in that eye is enough to quiet him. "The dead do not sleep," Auron says. "There is no point to pushing your endurance further."

"I can handle it!" Noctis snaps, his temper suddenly flaring.

"What did I say about lying?" Auron asks, more a rhetorical question than an actual one, but it shuts Noctis up all the same. "You shouldn't say things you don't mean, it's a waste of time. You and I both know you can't handle it - you're barely keeping yourself afloat. Even now, you doubt your capabilities as King, as Prince. You doubt your friends, you doubt yourself, and you are drowning in that doubt."

Once again, that weird feeling snakes through Noctis' stomach, up into his throat. It's fear, he realizes. Fear, and hysteria, and probably the six mental breakdowns he should have had back when all this went tits up. 

"I'm fine," he croaks. He means to say it louder, more powerfully, with conviction. But his throat feels tight, and his eyes burn, and he's beginning to realize just how out of his depth with Auron he is - and why Auron Amicitia was held as the grand standard for Shields everywhere.

It's because in his own quiet way, the man is a predator of the worst sort, and he knows where and when to aim his blows to cause the most devastation. 

"As you say," Auron responds. "We're here."

'Here' is a small space that widens into a larger crevice. There's a roof of tree roots and branches overhead, and Noctis wordlessly slides inside, putting his back to the stone cliffs. Auron wordlessly follows, sitting with his back to the opening. Noctis has never felt more boxed in, and more unprotected in his life.

"Are you hungry?" Auron asks.

Noctis wordlessly shakes his head. If he tries to eat anything now, he's dead certain he'll throw it up. Or choke on it. 

"Then rest," Auron orders. And really, it is an order. It's a gentle one, not phrased as such, but Noctis knows expectation when he feels it. "I will wake you when it's time to go."

The ground is unexpectedly soft. Noctis doesn't expect to find sleep easily, but he does, and while he stirs briefly during the night, he never completely wakes.

He dreams without nightmares that night, and wakes to find Auron's hand on his shoulder, his voice quietly reciting Noctis' name. The man's lost his red robe, and now sits in a black tank top similar to Gladio's. The question of where the robe is gets answered when Noctis sits up, and finds Auron has draped it over him as a blanket. 

Dawn is only barely beginning to peek over the horizon, but the rain has left and the sounds from earlier are gone. Noctis is able to eat one of the cans of soup in his Armiger, for all that it tastes rubbery and cold on his tongue. Once that's done, Auron stands.

Noctis goes to hand him back his robe, but the man shakes his head. "It gets colder the deeper we go," he says. "Keep it."

And so they slip outside and continue on, Noctis draped in red, and Auron in black.


	3. Guardian

The Fodina Caestino mines are not large by any means; winding, perhaps. On treacherous terrain, certainly. But were Auron still with Lady Yuna's party, they would have crossed and re-crossed the area by now, out and done in a single day. The facts of the matter are though that the difference between now and then is stark, and yet not at all. After all, for all that they were better composed and perhaps a tad more reckless than Noctis is, Tidus and Yuna were still roughly in the same age bracket, and much like Noctis is now, still trying to find their footing in a world that didn't seem to want to allow them to survive much longer than it took them to be useful.

And that's the thing about the Kings of Yore, Auron decides. Everyone seems to expect them to crawl out of the womb wise and all-knowing, mature and ready to lead. Nobody seems to grasp that such things, such  _traits,_ take time to appear, and longer to cultivate. It isn't something that can be done in a single night, where the King or Queen in question reflects hard on themselves, and then wakes up and shouts, " _Eureka, I've done it!"_ and that's that, wisdom and ruling ability obtained, everyone prepare to prostrate yourself over their greatness for the rest of your lives. 

Right now, Noctis Lucis Caelum is an emotionally volatile twenty-something that has lost far too much, and is still haphazardly bumbling around trying to find his footing. And Auron suspects that for all some of them will be more graceful about this process than others, his team is no less the same. Hells, Auron  _knows_ Gladiolus still needs time to find out who he is, both as a man and as a Guardian. 

Will the world allow him that time to find himself? Perhaps not. But that's why Auron is here. Not to assign blame, or to dwell on the mistakes made, for all that he would still very much like to cuff his grandson upside the head and want to know what on earth possessed him to say whatever it is he's said to make his King hurt so much. It's to help Noctis find his footing, and perhaps make this journey a little easier on them all by showing them how to carry the burdens and support one another. 

Because the facts as Auron knows them paint a very bleak picture, one he's seen before, back when dealing with Sin. A journey, a Prophecy, and the Astrals. A Pilgrimage, a Final Summoning, and Lady Yunalesca. He's walked this story half a dozen times with various people, but that never makes the betrayals any easier to bear. There will likely come a point where Noctis will have to decide how much he's willing to sacrifice in the grand scheme of things - and where his lines in the sand are. By the time that point occurs, Auron aims to have them all tightly invested in one another, all questions of each other's competency set aside in favor of  _knowing_ that they can rely on their fellows for help. 

At this point in time, it's a very lofty goal. But it's why Auron is allowing Noctis to set the pace - because the first step in this mess is giving everyone enough time by themselves to clear their heads, and realize some of the mistakes they've made, both with themselves and with each other. He can already tell there's likely going to be a few dozen explosions - proverbial, with any luck - from Noctis by the time all is said and done. Even now, when his body and mind are still scrambling to recover, he's holding tightly to the belief that he needs to be a King, and immediately. That if he isn't leading or taking charge, he's doing something wrong.

So Auron shuts him down, not with a simple refusal, but with cold logic. It garners a response he's seen in Tidus before - the fear, and the realization that he's in foreign territory, and he has no idea how to deal with that. With Tidus, it culminated in blaming Auron for ending up in Spira, followed by a brief breakdown as the realization that  _he couldn't go home_ sunk in. 

With Noctis, it results in a wary silence, and as much distance as Noctis lets himself take. Auron glances back every few moments, checking on him as they walk, and checking to ensure nothing nasty is sneaking up on him. The walking dead might deter the daemons, but regular fiends won't bat an eye. And chances are very good, with the history of the mines and the wall all production has suddenly stopped, combined with the reports of a very bad odor deeper in,  _something_ has chosen to set up it's territory here. Which means bracing himself for a fight.

They stop at another outcropping midway through the day, so Noctis can eat again and rest. This time it's a small thermos of soup he pulls from the Amiger and drinks, exhaustion weaving lines around his face. Auron almost wants to tell him to sleep again, because he so clearly needs it. But he knows more than that, he needs closure for all this. Needs his feet under him, his team at his back, and his faith restored. 

Auron is a man of many miracles over his long life, but he can only work with what he's given. And right now, Noctis doesn't seem inclined to give him much to work with. So it's another round of the waiting game while Noctis eats, and Auron listens to various things move in the distance around them, and tries to think of another safe spot to bunk down later, given it will likely take them another day to get down into the deeper parts of the mines. They've found the key to the backup generators, and they've found one of the two backup generators in question. They still need to find the second one, and then go back to the main generator, and get that started so they can move the machine out of their path. All of which is going to take time.

"Hey, um, Auron?"

Auron immediately switches his attention to Noctis, who's fiddling with the cap to his thermos. "Yes?"

It takes the young man some time to find his words; he glances over at Auron and then away, then goes back to fiddling with the cap. At last he takes a deep breath, and says, "I'm sorry."

Auron raises his eyebrow, and Noctis barrels on. "For this. All of this. I shouldn't be dragging my feet-- we should have been there already-- I just. I'm sorry."

Ah. Truth be told, he's been expecting something like this. "Am I to understand," he says, "That you're apologizing for daring to have emotions? Or is it your own perceived weakness you're apologizing for?"  _A weakness you are allowed to have, given the situation._

"Both," Noctis says, and then goes, "Wait, no, I meant-- shit." He covers his face with a hand, clearly frustrated by his own admission. Part of having a competent Guardian, Auron knows. One that knows all the little crevices and cracks where fears and doubts like to lurk, that knows the weight of their own words. He can only hope in time Gladio's questions inspire the same level of reactions.

"I," Auron says calmly. "Do not accept either apology. Because you have nothing to apologize for. You have done nothing wrong." He looks Noctis in the eyes as he speaks - he's found the boy responds best when he does, even if it tends to make him twitch. Probably because Auron's levering the same stare he's levered at hundreds of kings and queens before, the stern, patient look that speaks of having seen it all before, and knowing how and when to call a bluff. "I don't want to hear you apologize for your stresses, your fears or your doubts. That's why I'm here, Noctis."

"You should have just left me," Noctis mutters. "Not like anyone would have missed me."

The icy silence that follows those words gets him a soft curse from Noctis, the boy ducking his head and staring at his knees. Auron gives it a beat or two to sit, and then says, "Noctis. Look at me."

The read of his shoulders says he doesn't much feel like following that order, but he also knows if he doesn't look up, Auron will likely make him. He half-turns, tilting his head just enough so Auron can barely see his face beneath his bangs. His shoulders hunch in as he turns, tighten and draw up, as though to protect him from an unseen blow. "Yeah?"

He's expecting Auron to yell at him, or perhaps to express disappointment, the way Scientia might. Their line have always been good at that - disappointment from them might as well feel like failure, just like disappointment from the Amicitia feels like dishonor. But neither of those will help Noctis travel his chosen path, and truth be told neither is the response Auron intends to give. 

Instead, he reaches out, keeping his movements slow and readable, and nudges Noctis' chin up to where he can meet his gaze evenly. 

"I believe I've told you how I feel about lies," he says, and watches as Noctis swallows hard. Feels it against the back of his fingers, where he's keeping Noctis' chin up. "Make no mistake, this road you travel is hard and long, and before the end of it you will find yourself wondering if it's worth it. What the point of it is. You will wonder how much more suffering you will have to endure for the sake of it. But, you may believe me when I say that your actions have consequences. You might not think much of all those little things you've chosen to do for others along your journey, but it means the world to them. So yes, you would have been missed. Missed, and mourned, and wept over. And  _their_ stories would have been poorer for your lack of existence."

He lets his hand fall from beneath Noctis' chin, but Noctis doesn't immediately drop his head again. His shoulders are no longer drawn tight, for all that he's still somewhat hunched like he's ready to drop beneath a blow. And eventually, even that fades as Noctis absorbs the words, tiny splotches of color high on his cheeks. 

"I don't ever want to hear you speak ill of yourself like that again, Noctis," Auron says firmly. "You have more value than you believe, and your worth is not measured by mere strength alone. Am I understood?"

Again, it takes him a bit to answer. His eyes dart around Auron, not looking precisely at him. But he waits, and as inevitable as the sun rising, he gets his answer, first in a slow nod, and then in a croaked, "Yeah. Yeah... I got you."

Auron inclines his head. "Then," he says, and stands. "Let's continue."

Progress is being made. It's slow and stumbling, but it's progress all the same. 

 

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

 

They reach the Tomb a day and a half later. And true to Auron's word, it gets colder the deeper they go. Noctis finds himself shivering beneath the weight of Auron's robe, even as Auron himself seems completely unaffected. They've made periodic stops so he can eat and rest, all beneath the steady gaze of the older man, who seems to be operating under the goal of completely undoing every bit of Noctis' fragile, straining mental strength. The last few days have proven harrowing for all the wrong reasons, and Noctis can feel the stresses he's shoved to the back of his head starting to peak. 

He's King, but Auron makes him feel like he's just a kid again, with no idea of where he's going or what he's doing. Like he's fumbling in the dark for a light, but no matter which way he turns, he can't find it. It's a scary sensation, one Noctis wants desperately to stop - he's never wished to hear Gladio's temperamental thunderings more in his life, compared to the Auron's no-nonsense peace. 

When at last they find the Tomb, Noctis finds himself gagging. "Oh Gods," he wheezes, hastily raising the collar of Auron's robe to cover his nose. "What  _is_ that?" It smells like rot, like death and decay, and something fermenting. It's almost enough to make him want to gag. He's glad his stomach is empty for the moment.

"If I had to guess?" Auron asks, not stopping his descent down into the darkness. "A Malboro, likely a mature one."

"A  _what?"_

Auron beckons him with a finger. Noctis follows him to the very edge of what turns out to be another massive lake, and then points to a distant white gleam that he can tell are the Tomb doors. However...

"Look."

This time, Noctis  _does_ gag, and he hastily pulls the collar down and turns away in case he gets sick. Because covering the doors of the tomb are  _hundreds,_ perhaps even  _thousands,_ of shiny, pulsating  _eggs._

Auron gives him a moment, and then nudges him again. "Over there. Look closely."

It takes a bit for him to look and actually see what Auron's pointing at, but he manages. When he sees it, he nearly screams.

It's huge, and hideous, and  _vile,_ and Noctis wants absolutely  _nothing_ to do with this Tomb. He doesn't realize he's started panicking, his breath getting higher and raspier, until Auron steps between him and the Malboro's line of sight. "It's alright," the man says, and the sheer calmness of his presence seems to roll off onto Noctis then, putting strength back into his trembling legs and pushing back the fear that wants to eat him from the inside out. 

"How," Noctis manages to eek out. "Are we going to kill  _that?"_

"We aren't," Auron says, and Noctis' stomach drops for a second. "I am. You will stay here."

"What? But you--"

Auron steps closer then, and Noctis can't stop the full-body shiver that runs through him even as he tries as Auron's very presence seems to  _grow,_ becoming the only thing in front of him.

"I am a Guardian," Auron says, and his gaze feels like burning iron against Noctis' skin. "My purpose is to hold the weight of all that which you cannot. When your strength wanes, when you find yourself stumbling, I will be that which shelters you from the darkness. And I will hold back the tides until you are strong enough to face the world again. That includes doing this for you. It is my honor, and my pleasure. So, remain here, and I will deal with this."

And he steps back, and abruptly the world comes back into focus. Noctis' brain quietly shuts itself down as his legs give way, and he's left shuddering on the shore as Auron calmly walks towards the Malboro, sword materializing to be slung over his shoulder.


	4. Rescue Me

In the past, there had been a great many variations of Malboro, all of them nasty. Auron can still recall the dread he felt, when that inevitable moment came when someone was too slow to move, or they were protecting someone else, or they prioritized Yuna’s safety above all else, and the Malboro was allowed to gain enough room to unleash their Bad Breath. Huge, monstrous creatures capable of felling an army if given enough time.

 

These Malboro are smaller then their long-ago brethren, but a Malboro is a Malboro is a  _ threat  _ in Auron’s book. Even if Noctis is on dry land, they are still in this creature’s territory, and it will not stop at chewing Auron up. It will go after Noctis, and Auron will not allow that. Not when his charge is already so vulnerable.

 

Not when  _ his King  _ is already so very broken. 

 

So he breathes, and sinks into that quiet place every old warrior has in their soul, a spot carved by war and strife and true violence that requires action, not hesitation. He lets the knowledge of this beast drive him forward, and when the beast moves, it is not to lash out, but in response to Auron’s blow. 

 

Large he might be, but Auron has learned to move swiftly, to make each move count. And so he swings, leaves nothing to chance - and the Malboro  _ screams  _ as half of its body is unceremoniously sliced off, the gaping wound bleeding an ugly dark green sludge, vile enough to make a man lose all contents of his stomach. 

 

Noctis cries out behind him in warning, but Auron knows these creatures, how they propagate, and so he’s already turning, slicing down the younglings that have been roused by their mother’s cry. A clean swing through their whole body, severing the heart itself, rather than merely the body, and they’re dead in the water, more black and green sludge adding to the mix beneath him. He turns back to the mother, neatly backsteps to avoid her swing, and then reaches for the jug on his side.

 

Once, when Eos was Spira, there was a liquor produced that was 99% pure alcohol, a liquor that could be imbued with magic, and made to bless a weapon if doused on it. A spirit made to make spirits of men - and only offered to the finest warriors, those who had survived great loss. Once, a man, the maker of these spirits, offered Auron a jug and said  _ “For your long and treacherous road.” _

 

The creation of this liquor has long since been lost to Eos, so there will never be another, not unless Auron passes this jug down. He never used it much during his time with Yuna’s party, not out of a desire to hoard it, but simply because it wasn’t needed. Yuna and her party, all drama aside, knew what they were doing. There were enough older warriors there to balance out the recklessness of the younger fighters, and so they made it through without Auron needing to take a swig of this.

 

All it takes is a mouthful. Auron pulls back, re-caps the jug as he swirls it around in his mouth, tongue tracing teeth in the shape of a spell. In his mouth, the liquid grows hot, until it feels like it’s boiling. He lifts his blade, tilts his head back, and spits.

 

Where the liquid touches the blade, fire catches. A beautiful blue fire, phoenix fire, they called it. Capable of burning through anything, closing any wound, destroying any impurity.  _ The holy flame of Zanarkand,  _ Tidus had joked, once, and his father before him.

 

Auron breathes out, and  _ moves. _

 

His slice is horizontal, rather than vertical, this time, and the fire ensures that the blade cuts through the Malboro’s body with no fanfare. The creature manages one last, long screech of agony before it dies, and the fire on Auron’s blade leaps to eat the body before vanishing. 

 

In the resulting silence, there is only the steadily dripping of water from Auron’s clothes, and the soft, shocked breaths of Noctis behind him. Auron turns his head, letting his blade return to the aether. “Are you all right?”

 

The sound Noctis makes is harsh in his throat. “Shouldn’t...shouldn’t I be asking  _ you  _ that? You just… Gods what  _ did  _ you do?” He’s slow to get to his feet again, eyes wide as he takes Auron in. Like he’s finally  _ seeing.  _ Perhaps he is. Perhaps now he feels the weight of what Auron is offering, the full brunt of a protection that will not be denied. A haven where he can break and heal on his own terms, rather than those set by someone else. 

 

“I did what I was made to do,” Auron says. “Protect my King.”

 

Noctis’ breath hitches; his head turns, face disappearing into the collar of Auron’s cloak. Auron remains where he is, giving the younger man the space and time he needs. When he finally lifts his head again, Auron can tell he’s only barely clinging on. Like a swelling storm that’s been building for weeks, the grief is growing too large to contain. Soon the dam will burst, and Noctis will be swept beneath the weight of all he has endured. 

 

With Gladiolus, he would drown beneath that grief. In many ways, he already has.  With Auron however, he will continue to draw breath, and pick his pieces up, fit them back together in a way that makes them feel whole again. Auron has held greater tragedies than this, the heart of a child repeatedly broken before he was ready by the world. By the Gods themselves. 

 

But Noctis is still clinging. And so Auron will allow him this, until he can cling no longer. “Let’s go get the weapon,” Noctis says, his voice only slightly breaking this time. Auron nods, and slices down the egg sacks from the tomb doors, ensuring that no more Malboro will be born here, at least not yet. And then he shoves the tomb doors wider, wide enough for them both to enter even as a deluge of water enters the tomb as well.

 

When Noctis reaches out to take the weapon, it’s with the tired motions of someone giving up. Someone who has stopped thinking of other ways, and accepted that there is only this - only one path forward in his long journey.

 

He is wrong in this too. There is more than one path here, though they are hidden to his eyes. He doesn’t know what to look for,  _ how  _ to look, and so he’s missing the choices he has. Choices the Gods will not give him, for they want a clean-cut story, where good defeats evil and brings light back to the world. The same story Yunalesca wanted. Good defeats evil for a time at the cost of a life, until the next evil comes along, and the story needs a new hero. A tragedy told in parts, a lesson never learned from or studied deeper than the surface. 

 

Another tragedy, another story that could be told and summarized in two sentences. It’s a story Auron is tired of seeing.

 

This time, it’s a story that Auron intends to change.

 

“Where to now?” Noctis asks him, when the rotating blades of his ancestors have stopped circling like sharps, vanishing back until they’re called on again. “I...I mean, on the train, we were talking about going to Tenebrae. But Gralea’s where the Empire--”

 

“We will go to Tenebrae,” Auron says. “Gralea we will stay out of.”

 

Noctis’ mouth moves, a half-stutter of sound emerging in place of words. “You. Why?”

 

Auron looks at him. “Do you mean ‘why do I want to go to Tenebrae’ or ‘why am I not allowing you to go to Gralea’?”

 

“I… both. Let’s go with that. Both.”

 

“I want to go to Tenebrae because you need to say your goodbyes.”

 

Noctis’ breath chokes in his lungs. He reaches behind him, using the tomb to steady himself. “Y-you… saw it?”

 

Gentle. His King is splintering, the threat of cracking glass in his hands. He must be gentle.

 

“I did not need to,” he says, softening his voice. “Not when I have seen this story told before, by people who were much like the Gods of now. I know how it goes.”

 

Noctis swallows. His eyes are shut tight, head bowed, shoulders tight with tension. He’s clinging. But only barely. “How’s that? How does it go, Auron?”

 

Another tragedy.

 

“Good defeats evil. The hero dies, and the world goes on. Until the next evil comes, and the cycle starts again.”

 

Noctis slams a hand to his mouth. It does nothing to muffle the broken noise he makes, a sound of disbelief. Pain when faced with the awful truth - his is not the first or the last life to be given in a situation like this.

 

“And the reason I don’t want you going to Gralea is simple. Because you aren’t ready, and there is nothing there for us that demands our attentions. We will avoid unnecessary fights unless we have no options left.”

 

“Luna. I can’t let them get away with it.” It’s a hiss, barely a breath. It’s loaded with blood, a wound still bleeding out.

 

“Would she want you to throw yourself in harm’s way to avenge her? To risk your life again?”

 

“You don’t know what she would want,” Noctis spits, and he finally opens his eyes. 

 

“On the contrary,” Auron says, meeting Noctis’ rage with calm certainty. “Being who I am, I know very well. I have seen the stories before, Noctis. I have spoken to those who have come and gone. Lunafreya Nox Fleuret knew and accepted her fate the only way she could. She knew she could be cut down at some point. She knew she might not make it to the wedding of her dreams with you. Regardless, she loved and trusted you enough to carry on, and stand by you even at that threat. So tell me, are you going to sully that?”

 

Nobody has ever faced Noctis armed with this kind of logic before, Auron can tell. All the rage vanishes like it was never there, and instead Noctis just looks… tired. 

 

“I’m the King,” he says. “I have to do something.”

 

“No,” Auron says, and thinks of all those who have said the same. “You don’t. The only job you have now is to live. Not merely survive. You will live in the name of all of those who gave their lives in place of you, and you will honor them by remaining intelligent enough not to brazenly charge into an enemy’s stronghold. I understand your hurt, Noctis. But foolishness will not make the pain easier to bear. It will only bring you more grief.”

 

“Gladio said--”

 

“Gladiolus is not here now. I am. And the only expectation I have of you is to heal. You haven’t fractured yet, and so you can’t heal.”

 

Noctis reaches up to hug himself, fingers digging into his own arms. “I have to keep standing tall,” he whispers. “I can’t break.  _ I can’t,  _ Auron.”

 

“And yet,” Auron tells him. “You can go no further as you are. Walking tall does not mean dragging your broken body well past its limits. You are allowed to break, heal, and stand tall. You can do those things without breaking your promise.”

 

Perhaps, he thinks, this will be it. A last little nudge, and Noctis will slip. A soft touch, and it all shatters, in too many pieces to keep the ruse going. 

 

But as Noctis has proven, he’s stubborn to a fault, and refuses to ask for help. And so when he drags in a long, ugly breath that shivers in his lungs, Auron knows he is ready. Not yet. He’s still clinging bitterly to his pride, telling himself he can keep going. 

 

Tenebrae, Aurons suspects, will likely be where it all comes down. The entire castle of glass, poised and ready to drop on his head like a guillotine.

 

“Tenebrae,” Noctis says, and slowly stands, pushing himself off the marble stone. “Let’s go. The train… the train can take us.”

 

The train where his friends were, last he saw them. If they’re still there, Auron will circumvent their meeting, and get Noctis to Tenebrae. It’s still too early to let them damage him again. And Gladiolus likely won’t be in the mood for apologies, merely more blame. It isn’t what Noctis needs right now.

 

“Tenebrae,” Auron agrees. “Come along, then.”


	5. An Interlude of Tragedy

He’s gone. He’s gone.  _ He’s gone. _

 

_ “Hey, don’t go off on your own!” _

 

_ “Noct, wait up!” _

 

_ “Hey, you wanna slow down?” _

 

_ “Noctis!” _

 

How many times did he order Noctis not to go off by himself? Not to run ahead? To wait for his friends to catch up?

 

_ “Then hurry up already!” _

 

_ “C’mon, I wanna get gone already. Quit being slow.” _

 

_ “Fuck off!” _

 

_ “Shut up, Gladio.” _

 

And how many times had Noctis fought him on that? How many times had they argued, Gladio snarling and Noctis snapping back, until Gladio went to snatch him by an arm or grab a shoulder and Noctis brushed him off, or shoved against him?

 

He’s gone. He’s  _ gone.  _ And the only proof they have that he lived through Insomnia’s assault is their memories and the fucking phone and the pictures on Prom’s camera. Pictures of his - their - Prince. A boy that, Gladio now sees, was just as human as all of them. Fragile. Cracking at the seams, practically begging them to help him hold himself together. 

 

But that doesn’t matter now. Because Noctis Lucis Caelum is dead, and Gladio has not only failed in the duty he was born and raised for, but he has dishonored his family and countless generations of Amicitia guardians besides. He has dishonored  _ himself.  _ His dad would be furious, and disappointed, and probably exile him himself, if he were still alive.

 

For a long time after the conductor hands them Noctis’s phone, all Gladio can do is sit on the bench in a heat he no longer feels, and stare down at the cracked screen of a phone he remembers watching Noctis get on his twelfth birthday. A phone that had been loaded up with the best tracking and anti-theft tech, their personal numbers and IDs, and every bit of power and knowledge they could stick on it. A phone that Noctis used for everything, and that included making friends with the blond currently sobbing his eyes into his knees.

 

Any other time, maybe Gladio would feel annoyed that Prompto’s still crying. That he’s sounding like he’s dying. But as hollow, as gutted as he feels right now, all he can do is feel envious. Because at least Prom’s mourning. At least he’s capable of feeling, of getting those feelings out. Ignis hasn’t moved, not even when Gladio took the phone when it slipped out of his hands. He’s still standing there, head slightly cocked, expression bewildered, mouth slightly open like he’s fixing to say something, but can’t remember what he was going to say. 

 

He knew Noctis longer than Gladio did. Was the first to meet him as a kid, not the Prince, and practically raised him. Gladio doesn’t even want to think about what he’s dealing with. Gladio doesn’t even have it half as bad as these two - they  _ loved  _ Noctis. 

 

Gladio loved him too, if he’s honest. For all his bratty behavior and whining that drove Gladio mad at times, he could be sweet, thoughtful, and genuine most of the time. 

 

And now, that sweet, genuine Prince is gone. All because Gladio couldn’t keep a leash on his temper. How many times had Clarus Amicitia warned him about  _ that?  _ Told him he needed to calm down, to learn to deal with the pain Noctis would deal with, that he could protect Noctis but he couldn’t do his job for him? Couldn’t handle everything?

 

And Gladio… Gladio had seen Ignis’ eyes and Prompto’s hurt expression and Noctis’ gutted one after all was said and done, and he’d--

 

He’s failed them. Every last one of them. He’s supposed to be the  _ Shield,  _ the protector, the guardian waiting, and he even sought out fucking  _ Gilgamesh  _ to earn strength to help him in that feat, but yet here he is, his King dead, his team broken in the worst ways, and he--

 

He---

 

He closes his eyes, bows his head and reaches up to put a hand across his eyes as they begin to burn. No.  _ No.  _ He doesn’t have the right, not after what he did, not after the pain he’s caused them all. He doesn’t get to mourn, because this is  _ his fucking fault.  _

 

_ Suck it up,  _ he snarls at himself, but for once it only makes the pain in his chest flare wider and harsher, and his throat locks up tight, lips wanting to turn out in a wild keen of pain.  _ Shut the fuck up and be a man about this. You caused this. You don’t get to play the ‘poor pitiful me’ card. _

 

“Gladio.”

 

It’s barely a whisper. Barely a rasp. Beneath Prompto’s wild cries, barely heard. It takes Ignis’ hand clamping on his shoulder, tight and shaking, to hear it. And then Ignis says again,  _ “Gladio,”  _ and Gladio realizes he’s fixing to fall apart too. 

 

All three of them are breaking, he realizes, and  _ fuck,  _ here he is, once again shirking responsibility. 

 

No.  _ No.  _ Not this time. He bites down hard on his own tongue, hard enough to draw blood, and forces himself upright. Forces himself to put the phone that sears him into his pocket, forces himself to hook an arm under Prom and pull him upright, and scoop Ignis up with the other, and  _ move.  _ Back onto the empty train, back, back, all the way back to the compartment where the Regalia sits, where they won’t be disturbed, where the walls are thickest. 

 

This is all he can do for them now. 

 

The sight of King Regis’ car - of  _ Noctis’ car  _ \- nearly brings him up short, until he hears the tremble in Ignis’ breath, and knows he won’t last. He won’t have their grief out there for the world to see, not for something over this. So even if it hurts, even if it feels like the King himself is standing there glowering down at him, he opens the back door, and slides Prompto inside, and then Ignis. 

 

And then he tries to pull back, tries to run away and leave them to their deserved grieving, but Ignis grabs him tight by the shirt and yanks him close and snarls, “ _ No,  _ Gladiolus.”

 

“I--”

 

“He was  _ our King,”  _ Ignis says, and there’s a sob in his voice now, and Gladio’s throat closes up tight and his legs shake and  _ fuck fuck fuck-- _

 

“It’s my fault,” he says, and his own voice betrays him, choking on the words like they’re raw bits of glass going down. “I killed him, Iggy. I fucking drove him to goddamned suicide, and I don’t fucking deserve to mourn that!”

 

“You di-didn’t drive him to any-anyt-thing!” Prompto hiccups, and raises his face, streaked with tears and red from his sobs. He reaches over Ignis and grabs at Gladio’s shirt too, and even when he’s still crying he speaks. “It was hi-his-his ch-choice!”

 

And oh, that hurts too. But they can’t be--

 

“Noctis. Chose his path.” Ignis words are clipped, critical, for all that there are tears coming from his unseeing eyes now, creeping down beneath his glasses. “Had we known, perhaps we could have spoken to him, softened it. But I doubt very much he… did what he did because of you alone, Gladiolus. Playing the blame game will not bring him back. We… we will contact the Marshal, inform him. Later. But for now--”

 

“Stay,” Prompto begs, tugs on his shirt, and its so easy to just fall into it, to lean into their grief and feel his own swell in response. “Stay. We can’t do this alone.  _ Please.” _

 

That’s it. It’s Prompto’s soft words and Ignis looking at him, tears running down his face even as he pulls his glasses off and buries his face in his hands, that undoes him in the end. Gladio lets Prompto drag him inside, and shuts the door behind him, and there they sit, curled together, sobbing, breaking over the loss of their fourth - their King, their Prince, their  _ heart. _

 

Cherished. Beloved. Trusted.

 

_ Gone. _


End file.
